Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle

by Sophie Kinsella

  “No,” he says shortly. “Thanks.”

  This is how he’s been all week. All quiet and scary and barely looking me in the eye. And when he does look me in the eye, he looks so fed up that I feel a bit sick.

  I’m trying really hard to keep positive and look on the bright side. I mean, it’s probably totally normal for couples to have blips like this. Just like Mum said. This is the Second Big Row of our marriage, and the air will clear again and everything will be fine. . . . Except I’m not sure the Second Big Row should come two days after the First Big Row. And I’m not sure it should last a whole week.

  I tried e-mailing Mum on her cruise ship to ask her advice, but I got a message back saying that the Mind Body Spirit cruise was a retreat from the outside world, and no passengers could be contacted until next Friday, when they dock in Athens.

  Luke zips up his suit carrier and disappears into the bathroom without even looking at me. He’ll be gone in a few minutes. We can’t leave each other like this. We just can’t.

  He comes out again and dumps his shaving kit in his suitcase.

  “It’s our first anniversary soon, you know.” I’d been hoping Luke and I could do something romantic, like a candlelight picnic. “We should . . . plan something.”

  “I’m not even sure if I’ll be back in time,” says Luke.

  He sounds like he doesn’t care, either. Our first anniversary and he’s not even interested. Suddenly my head is hot and I can feel tears pushing at my eyes. The whole week has been awful and now Luke’s leaving and he won’t even smile at me.

  “You don’t have to be so unfriendly, Luke,” I say in a rush. “I know I’ve made a mess, but I didn’t mean to. I’ve said I’m sorry about a zillion times.”

  “I know,” says Luke in the same old weary tones.

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “What do you expect me to do, Becky?” he retorts in sudden exasperation. “Say it doesn’t matter? Say I don’t mind that just when I should be putting all my efforts into the Arcodas Group, I find myself flying off to some godforsaken island?” He clicks his case shut. “You want me to say I’m happy to be associated with some tacky hotel?”

  “It won’t be tacky!” I exclaim in dismay. “I’m sure it won’t! Nathan Temple said it was going to be of the highest quality! You should have seen him in that shop in Milan, Luke. He would only accept the best! The best leather . . . the best cashmere . . .”

  “And I’m sure he’ll have the best water beds,” Luke says with a sarcastic edge to his voice. “Becky, don’t you understand? I have a few principles.”

  “So do I!” I say in shock. “I have principles! But that doesn’t make me a snob!”

  “I am not a snob,” retorts Luke tightly. “I simply have standards.”

  “You are a snob!” My voice rushes out before I can stop it. “Just because he used to run motels! I’ve been looking up Nathan Temple on the Internet. He does loads for charity, he helps people. . . .”

  “He also dislocated a man’s jaw,” Luke cuts in. “Did you read about that?”

  For a few moments I’m halted.

  “That was . . . years ago,” I say at last. “He’s made amends . . . he’s reformed. . . .”

  “Whatever, Becky.” Luke sighs and picks up his briefcase. “Can we just leave it?”

  He heads out of the room and I hurry after him.

  “No. We can’t leave it. We have to talk, Luke. You’ve barely looked at me all week.”

  “I’ve been busy.” He reaches into his briefcase, takes out a foil strip of ibuprofen, and pops out a couple of tablets.

  “No, you haven’t.” I bite my lip. “You’ve been punishing me.”

  “Can you blame me?” Luke thrusts his hands through his hair. “This has been a hell of a week.”

  “Then . . . let me help!” I say eagerly. I follow him into the kitchen, where he’s running water into a glass. “There must be something I could do. I could do research—”

  “Please!” Luke interrupts, and swigs down his ibuprofen. “No more help. All your ‘help’ does is waste my bloody time. OK?”

  I stare at him, my face burning. He must have looked at my ideas in the pink folder. He must have thought they were total rubbish.

  “Right,” I say at last. “Well . . . I won’t bother anymore.”

  “Please don’t.” He walks off into the study, and I can hear him opening desk drawers.

  I want to say something else. Something witty and incisive which will prove him wrong. But I can’t think of it.

  As I’m standing there, the blood thumping round my head, I hear the sound of the letter box. I go into the hall, where a package is lying on the doormat. It’s a slim Jiffy bag for Luke, with a smudged postmark. I pick it up and stare at the handwriting, written in black marker pen. It looks kind of familiar—except it’s not.

  “You’ve got a parcel,” I say.

  Luke comes out of the study, holding a pile of files, and dumps them in his briefcase. He takes the package from me, rips it open, and pulls out a compact disc, together with a letter.

  “Ah!” he exclaims, sounding more pleased than he has all week. “Excellent.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “Your sister,” says Luke.

  I feel like he’s hit me in the solar plexus.

  My sister? Jess? My eyes drop down to the package in disbelief. That’s Jess’s handwriting?

  “Why . . .” I’m trying to keep my voice calm. “Why is Jess writing to you?”

  “She’s edited that CD for us.” He scans to the bottom of the page. “She really is a total star. She’s better than our own IT guys. And you know, she wouldn’t take any payment. I must send her some flowers.”

  His voice is all warm and appreciative, and his eyes are glowing. Suddenly there’s a huge lump in my throat.

  He thinks Jess is fab, doesn’t he? Jess is fab . . . and I’m crap.

  “So Jess has been a help to you, has she?” I say, my voice trembling.

  “Yes. To be honest, she has.”

  “I suppose you’d rather she was here than me. I suppose you’d rather we swapped places.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Luke folds up the letter and pops it back in the Jiffy bag.

  “If you think Jess is so great, why don’t you just go and live with her?” I can’t seem to control the words—they escape in an avalanche. “Why don’t you just go and . . . and talk about computers together?”

  “Becky, calm down,” says Luke, clearly amazed.

  But I can’t calm down.

  “It’s OK! You can be honest! If you prefer a miserable skinflint with zero dress sense and zero sense of humor to me . . . just say so! Maybe you should marry her if she’s so great! I’m sure you’d have a wonderful time together. . . .”

  “Becky!” Luke cuts me off with a look which chills me to the marrow. “Just stop right there.”

  I don’t dare move a muscle. I feel like we’ve plunged to some new, scary place in our relationship.

  “I know you didn’t get along with Jess,” he says at last. “But you should know this. Your sister is a good person. She’s honest, reliable, and hardworking. She spent hours on this for us.” He taps the disc. “She volunteered to do it herself, and she didn’t ask for any pay or any thanks. I would say she’s a truly selfless person.” He takes a few steps toward me, his expression unrelenting. “You could learn a lot from your sister.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but nothing will come out. I feel quite hollow with fear. Right now there’s nothing in Luke’s face to say he’s my husband and he loves me.

  “I have to go.” Luke looks at his watch. “I’ll get my stuff.”

  He strides out of the kitchen. But I can’t move from the spot.

  “I’m off.” Luke reappears at the kitchen door holding his case. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

  “Luke . . . I’m sorry.” At last I’ve found my voice, even if it is all shaky. “I’m s
orry I’ve been such a disappointment to you.” I raise my head, trying to keep a grip on myself. “But if you really want to know . . . you’ve been a disappointment to me too. You’ve changed. You were fun on our honeymoon. You were fun and you were laid-back and you were kind. . . .”

  Suddenly I have a memory of Luke as he was. Sitting on his yoga mat with his bleached plaits and his earring. Smiling at me in the Sri Lankan sunshine. Reaching over to take my hand.

  I feel an unbearable yearning for that easy, happy man, who bears no resemblance to the stressed corporate animal standing in front of me.

  “You’re different.” The words come out in a sob and I can feel a tear trickling down my cheek. “You’ve gone back to the way you used to be before. The way you promised you’d never be again.” I wipe away the tear roughly. “This isn’t what I thought married life would be like, Luke.”

  “Nor me,” says Luke. There’s a familiar wryness to his voice, but he isn’t smiling. “I have to go. Bye, Becky.”

  A few moments later I hear the front door slam.

  I sink down onto the floor and bury my face in my knees. And he didn’t even kiss me goodbye.

  For a while I don’t move. I just sit there in the hall, hugging my knees. Our marriage is in tatters. And it hasn’t even been a year.

  At last I rouse myself and get stiffly to my feet. I feel numb and spaced-out. Slowly I walk into the silent, empty dining room, where our carved wooden table from Sri Lanka is standing proudly in the middle of the room.

  The sight of it makes me want to cry all over again. I had such dreams for that table. I had such dreams of what our married life was going to be like. All the visions are piling back into my head: the glow of candlelight, me ladling out hearty stew, Luke smiling at me lovingly, all our friends gathered round the table. . . .

  Suddenly I feel an overwhelming, almost physical longing. I have to talk to Suze. I have to hear her sympathetic voice. She’ll know what to do. She always does.

  I hurry, almost running, to the phone and jab in the number.

  “Hello?” It’s answered by a high-pitched woman’s voice—but it’s not Suze.

  “Hi!” I say, taken aback. “It’s Becky here. Is that—”

  “It’s Lulu speaking! Hi, Becky! How are you?”

  Her abrasive voice is like sandpaper on my nerves.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Is Suze there, by any chance?”

  “She’s just putting the twins into their car seats, actually! We’re off for a picnic, to Marsham House. Do you know it?”

  “Er . . .” I rub my face. “No. I don’t.”

  “Oh, you should definitely visit it! Cosmo! Sweetie! Not on your Petit Bateau overalls! It’s a super National Trust house. And wonderful for the children, too. There’s a butterfly farm!”

  “Right,” I manage. “Great.”

  “I’ll get her to call back in two secs, OK?”

  “Thanks,” I say in relief. “That would be great. Just tell her . . . I really need to talk to her.”

  I wander over to the window, press my face against the glass, and stare down at the passing traffic below. The traffic light at the corner turns red and all the cars come to a halt. It turns green again and they all zoom off in a tearing hurry. Then they turn red again—and a new set of cars come to a stop.

  Suze hasn’t called. It’s been more than two secs.

  She isn’t going to call. She lives in a different world now. A world of Petit Bateau overalls and picnics and butterfly farms. There’s no room for me and my stupid problems.

  My head feels thick and heavy with disappointment. I know Suze and I haven’t been getting on that well recently. But I thought . . . I honestly thought . . .

  Maybe I could call Danny. Except . . . I’ve left about six messages for him and he’s never returned any of them.

  Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just have to pull myself together on my own.

  What I will do is . . . I will make myself a cup of tea. Yes. And take it from there. With as much determination as I can muster I walk to the kitchen. I flick on the kettle, drop a tea bag in a mug, and open the fridge.

  No milk.

  For an instant I feel like falling to the floor again and crying till nightfall. But instead I take a deep breath and lift my chin. Fine. I’ll go and buy some milk. And stock up generally. It’ll be good to get some fresh air and take my mind off things.

  I pick up my Angel bag, slick on some lip gloss, and head out of the apartment. I walk briskly out the gates and down the street, past the weird shop with all the gold furniture, and into the delicatessen on the corner.

  The moment I get inside I start to feel a bit more steady. It’s so warm and soothing in here, with the most delicious smell of coffee and cheese and whichever soup they’re cooking that day. All the assistants wear long striped ticking aprons, and look like they’re genuine French cheese-makers.

  I pick up a wicker basket, head to the milk counter, and load in a couple of pints of organic semi-skimmed. Then my eye falls on a pot of luxury Greek yogurt. Maybe I’ll buy myself a few little treats to cheer myself up. I put the yogurt into my basket, along with some individual chocolate mousses. Then I reach for a gorgeous handblown glass jar of gourmet brandied cherries.

  That’s a waste of money, a voice intones in my head. You don’t even like brandied cherries.

  It sounds a bit like Jess’s. Weird. And anyway, I do like brandied cherries. Kind of.

  I shake my head irritably and thrust the jar into my basket, then move along to the next display and reach for a mini olive-and-anchovy focaccia pizza.

  Overpriced rubbish, comes the voice in my head. You could make it yourself at home for 20p.

  Shut up, I retort mentally. No, I couldn’t. Go away.

  I dump the pizza in my basket, then move along the displays more swiftly, putting in punnets of white peaches, miniature pears, several cheeses, dark chocolate truffles, a French strawberry gâteau. . . .

  But Jess’s voice is constantly in my head.

  You’re throwing money away. What happened to the budget? You think indulging yourself like this will bring Luke back?

  “Stop it!” I say aloud, feeling rattled. God, I’m going crazy. Defiantly I shove three tins of Russian caviar into my overflowing basket and stagger to the checkout. I drop the basket down on the counter and reach inside my bag for my credit card.

  As the girl behind the till starts unloading all my stuff, she smiles at me.

  “The gâteau’s delicious,” she says, carefully packing it into a box. “And so are the white peaches. And caviar!” She looks impressed. “Are you having a dinner party?”

  “No!” I say, taken aback. “I’m not having a dinner party. I’m just . . . I’m . . .”

  All of a sudden I feel like a fool. I look at my piles of stupid, overpriced food bleeping through the register and feel my face flame. What am I doing? What am I buying all this stuff for? I don’t need it. Jess is right.

  Jess is right.

  The very thought makes me wince. I don’t want to think about Jess.

  But I can’t help it. I can’t escape the thoughts wheeling round in my head like big black crows. Out of nowhere I hear Luke’s voice. She’s a good person . . . she’s honest, reliable, and hardworking. . . . you could learn a lot from your sister. . . .

  You could learn a lot from your sister.

  And suddenly it hits me like a bolt of lightning. Oh my God. This is the answer.

  “That’ll be a hundred and thirty pounds, seventy-three pence,” says the girl behind the checkout.

  “I—I have to go,” I say. “Now.”

  “But your food!” says the girl.

  “I don’t need any of it.”

  I turn and stumble out of the shop, still clutching my credit card in my hand. It’s all fallen into place. I must go and learn from Jess.

  Like Yoda.

  I’ll be her apprentice and she’ll teach me all her frugal ways. She’ll show
me how to become a good person, the kind of person that Luke wants. And I’ll learn how to save my marriage.

  She tried to help me before and I didn’t listen. But this time I’ll be grateful. I’ll pay attention to every word she says.

  I start walking along the street more and more quickly, until I’m breaking into a run. I have to go to Cumbria. Right this minute.

  I sprint all the way home, and up about three flights of stairs before I realize my lungs are nearly exploding and I’m never going to make it all the way up to the penthouse. Puffing like a steam engine, I sit down for a few minutes, then take the lift up the rest of the way. I burst into the apartment and run to the bedroom, where I pull a bright red leather suitcase out from under the bed and start throwing things randomly into it, like they do on the telly. A T-shirt . . . some underwear . . . a pair of turquoise pumps with diamanté buckles . . . I mean, it doesn’t matter what I take, does it? I just have to get up there and build bridges with Jess.

  At last I snap the case shut and haul it off the bed. I grab a jacket, wheel the case down the hall and out onto the landing, then turn and double-lock the front door. I take one last look at it, then step into the lift, feeling strong with a new resolve. Everything’s going to change from this moment on. My new life starts here. Off I go, to learn what’s really important in—

  Oh. I forgot my hair straighteners.

  Instinctively I jab at the halt button. The lift, which was about to descend, gives a kind of grumpy little bump but stays put.

  I can’t possibly go without my hair straighteners. And my Kiehl’s lip balm.

  OK, I might have to rethink the whole it-doesn’t-matter-what-you-take strategy.

  I hurry back out of the lift, unlock the front door, and head back into the bedroom. I haul another case out from under the bed, this one bright lime green, and start tossing things into that too.

  Finally I pick up my Angel bag. And as I glimpse my reflection in the mirror, with no warning, Luke’s voice resounds through my head: I just hope the handbag was worth it, Becky.

  I stop still. For a few moments I feel a bit sick.

  I almost feel like leaving it behind.